The Art of Breaking
by Levye
Summary: What happens when science gets a hold of one of the Sons of Ipswich?


He sat there, curled in upon himself in the corner of the room with no light, rocking. He knew it was only a matter of time before they came back to start asking him questions he didn't know the answers to. Questions he would never know the answers to. The door opened and he hid his face against his knees, trying to make himself as small as possible even though he knew it to be a fruitless effort.

_Pleasedeargoddon'tdothisIdon''._

He kept his thoughts to himself, barely making a sound as the footsteps came farther and farther into his cell though he couldn't stop his wincing at the sharp taps the heels of their boots made against the tile of his floor. When he felt them crouch down in front of him, he wrapped his arms around his legs and drew them up closer to his chest. He knew it was a sign of weakness to them, knew that to them it would mean that he was breaking a little, but he didn't care anymore. He was months and several lost pints of blood beyond caring what these people thought of him.

He couldn't help the whimper that escaped his lips when he felt their hands encircle his arms and lift him from the floor any more than he could help trying to get away. He had to try, had to at least attempt to escape because he wouldn't _couldn't_ go back down there. He struggled even as they pinned down his arms and legs and stuck him with something that made the world go hazy and then fade away all together.

_Ican'tpleasedon'tIhatethedark. I'._

***

He had long since lost track of when his thoughts started running together - as if they could take those away from him too and he'd be damned if he didn't get them all thought out first. They were the last thing left to him, his thoughts. They had taken his family, friends, appearance… his name. He couldn't remember his name, and somewhere in the farthest places of his mind he thought that he might miss having a name. He also thought he might miss having a family, or friends, or a lover if he could remember having them. He knew he did, once, they told him that much before the torment started again, but he could remember nothing about them. Nothing else mattered but what was going to happen in the next however-long and when-would-he-get-to-rest-because-gods-he-was-tired.

They turned on the light above where he was chained to the table, the brightness excruciating to his light-deprived eyes and he screwed his eyes shut, though he knew it wouldn't matter. The light was not the worst of what was to come.

_PleaseletthemgetboredsoonIdon''sthepoint?_

***

When they threw him back into his cell (they'd had to carry him because he couldn't stand, let alone walk) he crawled and dragged himself over to his corner and huddled there until the dark stopped swirling around him and the ground stopped tilting underneath him. Then, and only then, did he manage to get onto all fours and crawl to the place where they had put a pillow and a small blanket on the ground for him. A deadline. They'd given him a deadline. As he lay on top of his less-than-mediocre bed he felt the darkness pull at him. Not the darkness of sleep, but of unconsciousness, of loss-of-blood-and-too-many-drugs-and-please-gods that fell on deaf ears.

He tried to remember his life before the dark, before the questions and before _Them, _but as was usual, the nameless man fell out of that train of thought and into the never-ending questions of his own that plagued him. He never seemed to find any solace in his 'I-don't-remember-what-the-sun-looks-like-I-used-to-have-a-name-why-me-and-not-them-who-are-'them'-I-don't-want-to-be-here-anymore's, so he was as glad as he remembered how to be when the only question that ran through his head was "What the hell is Using, and why do they think I can do it?"

***

Outside his room, on the side of the door hung a chart. They had put it there only after being certain of two things: one, that he would never look at it, and two, that it wouldn't matter if he did. He had long ago forgotten that he knew how to read.

SEX: M

AGE: 23

CLASSIFICATION: SON OF IPSWITCH

PATIENT NAME: POGUE PARRY

NOTES: Patient is a compulsive liar and has been known to be subject to violent outbursts. Extreme measures are permitted when handling this patient. Do all that is necessary to discern the exact nature of 'Using'.

-END-

PT.2

The nameless man woke abruptly to hands pulling him roughly from the tangled mess his blanket had made around his legs. He kept his eyes closed, sending what felt like a prayer (though he hadn't prayed in he couldn't remember how long) to an entity he was certain wasn't ever listening for him.

_Please… I just want to sleep. _

He continued to say this in his mind, a bit of a mantra as they dragged him out of his room half dressed and barely standing. It was colder in the hallway than it had been in his room, if that was possible, and goose flesh ran over his skin as he shivered and wished that he had been allowed a shirt. He knew better than to ask, though, so he kept silent and tried to keep his shivers to a minimum. He knew that, as much as he may want to, if he struggled or put up too much of a fight today his punishment would be worse, so he walked with the men on either side of him, both armed with needles filled with that stuff that made him hazy and black out and he-so-did-not-want-it-in-him-again. He behaved until he saw the door where they were leading him. Then he fell limp in their arms.

There would be no questions asked today. None that they would truly expect answers for.

_Ohgodpleasedon'tIdon'twanttogothereagainIcan'tpleasenonononononononono._

He knew he should walk with them still, that he should cooperate…but he couldn't willingly walk into _that_ room. He just couldn't. The nameless man whimpered, knowing that while he couldn't walk into it, it would not stop them from throwing him into it. He tried something he hadn't tried in months. HE spoke.

"I don't know what you want me to answer. I don't know the answer. Please! If I knew I would tell you… don't do this. Please please don't do this!"

An elbow to his ribs let him know in no uncertain terms that his pleas would fall over deaf ears. Again. So he hung there and forced them to carry him because he wouldn't go in there if he could help it. Nothing good would come of that room, or whoever was in it, waiting.

***

He bit his lip to keep from whimpering again as they chained him to the floor facing the wall farthest from the door. He drew blood when they took away the only clothing he'd been allowed there, his pants, and he closed his eyes as they left him there, naked for anyone to see, and shut the door behind them. The quiet _shunk_ it made as it closed echoed in the dim room, and he flinched at it. He didn't want this.

When the door opened again some time later, he kept his head bowed, allowing for his shoulder length hair to make a curtain that hid his face. If he could hide nothing else, he would hide his face. He didn't bother to try to look to see who had entered – honestly, he didn't care. The man-with-no-name simply knelt there and waited for it to begin.

"Do you remember the rules, Son of Ipswich?"

He didn't respond. He knew he wasn't supposed to.

"Nod your head if you understand me. You are to nod or shake your head whenever I ask you a question, do you understand?"

He nodded slowly.

"I will only ask you yes or no questions. You will answer every time unless I tell you otherwise. Do you understand?"

He nodded again.

"Good." There was the sound of a box opening, and the bound man squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for whatever was to come.

The first blow took him by surprise, though he didn't know why. He had heard the footsteps walking, measured toward where he knelt, immobile. Still, the first crack of the whip and the sting of it hitting his flesh startled a cry from him. He closed his eyes as his head was yanked back and a threat was whispered into his ear about was-he-told-he-could-make-noise-and-do-it-again-and-see-what-happens. He swallowed hard and nodded once when he was asked if he understood. The next blow of the whip didn't surprise him like the first had, and after the tenth strike he could no longer feel his back and his legs were covered in a sticky substance. Through this he remained silent, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his teeth to keep from screaming because he knew it would be worse if he didn't.

The first question came. "Do like this Son of Ipswich?"

He shook his head, knowing his answer didn't truly matter. What he did or did not like was not the object of the game anymore.

"Would you like me to stop?"

He nodded, a barely noticeable drop of his chin. He flinched when another crack sounded by his head and stilled as he heard the man behind him laugh.

"I like you when you're scared. Are you scared, boy?"

He thought about that for a moment, discerning what the best answer would be. If he answered honestly – he would shake his head. He wasn't scared, just resigned. But to shake his head could be to invite more punishment, and he just wanted it to stop. So he nodded and hoped he hadn't taken too long to answer.

The kneeling man heard keys jungle behind him and felt more than heard the step that put his tormentor next to him.

"I'm going to undo these. You don't move and inch until I move you. Do you understand?"

He nodded, any hope of being done leaving him at the voice. For once he was grateful that they kept his hair long, because he used it now as he had before – as a curtain to hide behind as the first tear of the evening slid down his cheek. He felt the chain connecting his wrists to the floor slacken and prayed for a moment that he would have the strength to escape before he heard his tormentor pick up the discarded whip again.

"Stand, boy."

The nameless man stood slowly, wishing he could take comfort in the way the muscles in his legs moved smoothly under skin but knowing that it was this same trait that the man behind him would admire. He knew he was right as the sound of a sharply exhaled breath reached his stimulus-deprived ears, and stood straight, trying not to let the feelings of revulsion and embarrassment color his stance.

"Walk to the wall, Son of Ipswich."

HE complied, wishing just once that the man would get distracted enough to call him by his name, whatever it was. He thought it might be strange to hear it, but then he'd remember it again and he wouldn't let them take it away from him. The next crack from the whip took him across the back of his thighs, and he staggered, realizing too late that he'd been asked a question he failed to answer while he was lost in his thoughts.

"Don't fall, boy. I asked you a question. I want your attention solely on me, can you do that?"

He nodded, biting back a cry at the pain of using wounded muscles and wondering dimly how badly the whip had cut him.

"Do you know why they gave you to me, boy?"

He shook his head. This, at least, he could answer honestly.

"They don't think you're broken enough. They seem to think you're keeping secrets. Are you keeping secrets, Son of Ipswich?"

He shook his head hard and fast, hoping that perhaps this man would listen to him where no one else has. He jumped when the voice came from right next to his ear instead of from behind him. He hadn't even heard the man move.

"I don't know if I believe you, boy. Assume the position."

He whimpered again and complied, hearing the man snicker before new chains were attaching him to the wall at all limbs. He flinched when he felt a hand on his lower back, and clenched his hands as he felt a finger probe around his hole. "Please…" he whispered to no one in particular. He was shoved into the wall roughly as that finger continued its slow circles.

"Did I tell you to speak, boy?"

He shook his head.

"Then should you be speaking?"

He shook his head again and squirmed away from the finger trying to push its way inside him only to find that he could barely go two inches forward before meeting the wall. All at once the finger trying to invade him was gone and his head was pulled back roughly by a hand in his hair. He tried not to swallow or move his head when he felt the sharp point of a knife rest against his jugular.

"Did I give you permission to move? Did I?!"

Though it was yelled, the helpless man didn't answer. He couldn't nod (not that he would have) because of the hand in his hair and to shake his head would have slit his own throat. So he remained motionless and silent. He would have sighed in relief if he could have when the knife was removed and his head released, but the relief was short lived as the finger was returned, less gentle this time and more insistent. He tried to stay still as it pushed inside, tried to swallow the vomit that climbed his throat and quell the tears that threatened to spill over his cheeks at the feeling of violation.

_Pleasedon'?Please?…_

He heard his tormentor snigger when the finger found the sweet spot inside of him and stroked over and over, making him hard despite his unwillingness to partake. He didn't fight the shudders anymore, hoping the scum behind him would be pleased enough to stop while being ashamed that they weren't wholly shudders of revulsion anymore.

"I knew you'd like it, boy. Knew you'd respond. You like what I'm doing to you, don't you. Don't you?"

Though he knew the question wasn't meant to be answered, he still shook his head. Over and over he shook his head as his torturer continued to stroke that spot inside of him until he was making small mewling sounds in his throat and had chewed holes in his cheeks.

"Scream for me, Son of Ipswich. Let the entire building know how much you love what I'm doing right now." The voice came from right next to his ear. "Scream for me, and I'll stop when you go."

Despite the never-ending rejections in his head, he screamed and cried out and did everything that voice told him to because all he could think of was getting out of this room without losing anymore blood or flesh. A hand gripped his reluctantly leaking cock and stroked once before he came undone and his orgasm covered the wall in front of him. He heard the voice while he was still convulsing.

"No one is going to want you anymore. All those people you knew you had and wish you could remember at night? They will never want you back. You might as well just tell them what they want to know – you're just making this harder on yourself to protect people who want nothing to do with you."

The nameless man just hung there. He knew better than to engage in conversation anymore.

"If there was anyone out there who cared about you, Son of Ipswich, wouldn't they have come for you by now?"

The man left, his chuckle mixing with the _shunk_ of the door as the bound man hung there, waiting for whatever came next.

***

What felt like hours later he was back in his sensory-deprived room, for once welcoming the dark and the silence. He lay huddled under the scrap of cloth that functioned as a blanket, spent and humiliated and weeping. He had only one thought before the sleep of too many tears cried and far more prayers unanswered overtake him.

_If you love me so much… why haven't you come for me?_

***

Over one hundred miles away in the boys dormitory at Spencer Private School, a boy sat straight up in bed with one name on his lips.

"Pogue."

END


End file.
